


The Name in Vain

by bourbonandbitter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gags, Kink Meme, Lack of Communication, Light Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overthinking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 01:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19780807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bourbonandbitter/pseuds/bourbonandbitter
Summary: When Crowley returns from Hell with an infernal compulsion to tempt, it's up to Aziraphale to protect the humans of London from Crowley and Crowley from himself.Or, Crowley gives Aziraphale a kinky engraved invitation, and Aziraphale interprets it to mean "Please guard my chastity until I can think clearly."Note: Dubcon warning does not apply to sex.





	The Name in Vain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Kink Meme
> 
> This prompt: https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=225128#cmt225128
> 
> "Crowley is muzzled or gagged with his mouth shut so he can't say anything tempting. He's totally tempting in every other way, though, and Az makes it very clear just what he thinks about that."

Aziraphale ignores it until he has to intercept a shoplifter with the autographed first edition of Salome.

By the time he escorts the would-be thief out the door, Crowley is babbling at another customer (how _do_ they get in here).

"Can't hurt, the till is right there and it's not like the world doesn't owe you a few hundred quid, right? You know how to do it, too, you've had enough minimum wage customer service jobs to know exactly how to get away with -- mmph!" That last bit after Aziraphale's clamped his hand over Crowley's mouth.

He smiles brightly at the customer, who realises he has a big job interview, and it's going to go swimmingly. "Excuse us, please. Closing for inventory."

And he drags Crowley into the back room and throws him onto the sofa.

"Just what," he hisses, "do you think you're doing?"

"Tempting," Crowley says helpfully.

Aziraphale sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"And why are you tempting my customers?"

"Bad review," Crowley explains. "Numbers been down. Get up there and make some temptation, Beelzebub told me, and don't stop until you do. Can't stop until I do," he emphasizes. "I'd like to, angel, you know I would," and he stretches his long body out seductively, arms open and welcoming, legs open and… welcoming, head tilted just enough that Aziraphale can see the kissable line of his neck. "But I can't. Can't go against the boss. Physically can't. Would like to. If only some righteous agent of good could stop me somehow?"

And as if it were possible, his form gets even longer, even more sinuous, curving and twisting in fascinating ways. Aziraphale feels his mouth go dry.

"Are you suggesting…"

"If you could only keep me out of trouble," Crowley breathes. "Be a lot easier on both of us, really. And I'd have it coming, wouldn't I? Evil serpent that I am. Not like you want this, no," and he slides a hand up to his shirt collar and begins fiddling with the buttons.

He's blushing, he knows he's blushing, face red as an apple as Crowley unbuttons his shirt down to the belt.

"Stop it," he chokes.

"Can't, sorry, you'll just have to thwart me."

"I will not," he says absurdly. But what he means is _not like this_ , not when Hell has some kind of control over Crowley's will. Another time -- well, that's hope for the future, and Aziraphale boxes it up with his usual fervor and hides it away in the shadowy depths of his soul. "How long?"

Crowley shrugs. "Usually a few days, if I'm lucky. Sixteen hours to go, based on experience."

He rises from the sofa and advances on Aziraphale, who takes a step back, and then another as Crowley overtakes him.

"Come on, don't you want to see what I can do when you're watching? How long have we been dancing around it? Don't we deserve a chance to show each other-" He bites off his words and lifts one of Aziraphale's wrists to his lips instead.

Aziraphale flexes his hand to cup Crowley's jaw. "No," he says thickly.

Crowley flinches but doesn't back down.

"Please angel," and it's just a murmur, "anything you want. I won't say no. Won't say anything, if you don't want. We never have to talk about it again." He pulls off his sunglasses with his free hand, eyes sincere and urgent. "Let me show you how I feel."

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Not like this," he says with a firmness, an integrity, he doesn't feel. Heaven forgive him, he can't withstand this. "Sixteen hours, you said."

"Angel," says Crowley, "don't send me away, I couldn't stand it." And he sheds his shirt like an old skin. Aziraphale is vaguely aware that Crowley usually wears a vest under his shirt, but it's been decades since he's seen him in this state of undress and the fashions might have changed, and now the demon is standing before him half-naked, and that was fast. He realises he's made an embarrassingly virginal squeak.

But he can't stand to send Crowley away either. It isn't safe outside the bookshop, not for Crowley and not for the humans of London. "You can stay here," he relents, "on one condition." And immediately the condition is hanging from his free hand. He has the pleasure of watching Crowley's eyes slide over to it and widen as he takes in the black leather, the mouth-filling plug, the quite absurd number of straps. 

Merciful Heaven, a delighted smile spreads over the demon's face.

"Yes, angel," he says approvingly. "That's some top-notch thwarting."

*

And that's how Aziraphale winds up with a gagged demon in his back room. 

There's no trick to the gag, no sigils or blessed padlocks. Crowley can get out of it whenever he wants; the trick is to make sure he doesn't want to. The mouthpiece is fitted with three slender silver-buckled straps on each side; they're mostly decorative but do help customise the fit. There's another strap across each cheek, joining up between the brows and curving over the forehead to the buckle behind the head. There's an o-ring back there, too, and Aziraphale plans on making good use of it.

Crowley makes some fascinating noises under the gag, but not as though he's trying to be understood -- more like he enjoys hearing his own little muffled protests while Aziraphale locks up the store and carries a bottle of Château Lafite with a single glass to the back room.

Crowley remains slouched on the sofa, one leg sprawled beside him and the other kicked out recklessly in front, arms spread over the back, as though he isn't compelled by Hell and gagged by an angel. He glowers when he sees the wine.

"Yes, well. Not as though it's possible for you to partake, is it?" Aziraphale sips primly. "Fifteen and a half hours to go."

Crowley scrunches down into his cushions, which somehow makes his groin more prominent. He makes a noise that could be _you bastard_.

Aziraphale smiles. "If there's something you want, my dear, you have only to ask."

Crowley glares daggers.

"However, given the fact that you have said nothing on the topic to date, I can only infer that you have no desires in that regard."

A very pointed flexing of the hips in Aziraphale's direction, and an insistent moan.

"I can't say I would be opposed if you would only ask me. Regardless, we can discuss the situation in fifteen hours. That's hardly a hardship-" and he's pleased with how his careful emphasis on _hard_ turns out - "given our natures."

Crowley makes an abortive snorting noise and drops one hand to his crotch.

"Manners, my dear," Aziraphale rebukes.

Very carefully, holding his gaze, Crowley rubs his hard-on. Aziraphale tsks.

"If I have to tie you up…" he begins, but is cut off by a more desperate _mmph_ ing. "I can't promise it will be comfortable."

A snarky _mmph_.

"You're terribly expressive, my dear. I see no reason not to keep you like this more often."

He takes another sip while assessing his captive, as though he hasn't already decided what to do with him. Crowley blushes and writhes under his gaze. Lovely.

It's only a few steps across the room, and Crowley tilts his head to watch with unblinking eyes, pupils large and black, as Aziraphale removes the snakeskin belt. He keeps his hands firmly on the back of the sofa until Aziraphale crosses one wrist over the other and fastens them gently with the belt, wrapping end over end and sliding the tail into a loose knot.

His mouth very near Crowley's ear now, he whispers: "Don't get yourself into trouble, and I won't have to make you uncomfortable." The demon trembles under his hands.

He pauses, thinking hard, and finally declines to kiss Crowley's cheek between harness straps. Fifteen more hours, he thinks. "Sit quietly now," he says aloud.

*

Damn his weakness, he can't resist reclining on the sofa with Crowley's head against his chest while he sips wine and pretends to read. Crowley makes little whimpering noises from time to time and shimmies on the cushion, trying to relieve his erection. 

"I told you making a permanent Effort would lead to more inconvenience in the long run," Aziraphale says absently. 

Crowley makes an indignant _mmph_ in response, and then a demanding _mmph mmph MMPH_.

"Ten more hours, my dear."

The demon bucks his hips insistently. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. "Do I need to tie you down?"

Crowley moans and rolls his eyes, and it's quite clear that he doesn't care what Aziraphale needs as long as Crowley gets what he wants.

Aziraphale eyes the little sheen of sweat emblazoned on the demon's chest, wonders how long he can hold off tonguing the rosy nipples. "Probably for the best," he decides. 

Crowley _mmphs_ inquisitively.

"I think I should take your trousers off. So you don't do anything filthy."

Another curiously shortened snort and an offended look. Of _course_ Crowley will do something filthy, he interprets.

"Of course I'd take care of you myself if you'd only ask me. But it's better that I don't touch you," he explains. "Not yet, not until you can really tell me whether you want it."

An indignant noise and a series of _mmphs_ that sound like a lecture, but Crowley rocks his hips helpfully as Aziraphale undoes the fastenings of his trousers and peels them off his body. Shoes and socks go with them. Crowley's Effort is hard against his silk pants, and Aziraphale resists the temptation to rip them off as well. Instead, he lifts Crowley to his feet and guides him to the stacks, pressing his back against one sturdy shelf. He undoes the belt around Crowley's wrists and pulls the demon's arms over his head, not so high as to be uncomfortable, but just high enough to stretch his torso elegantly taut, binding them with soft rope. Crowley pulls a little against the bonds, dangling in an attractively helpless way. Aziraphale takes the time to lash his thighs and ankles to the shelf, and it holds him immobile but does not, as it turns out, prevent the demon from thrusting his head forward, nuzzling in for a kiss. 

Aziraphale declines to give it to him, cupping his cheek instead and tracing rough circles on the corner of cheekbone exposed by the straps.

"You're even more beautiful this way than I imagined."

Crowley moans, sounding genuine this time, and leans in as far as he can manage.

"Nine and a half hours, darling." He means it as a promise. "And don't drool this time, or I shall have to wire your jaw shut."

He ties the gag to the shelf too, just to be on the safe side, running soft rope through the o-ring on the back of the harness. Crowley can barely move this way, and he flexes his thighs and buttocks to try to gain a little friction against his pants. Aziraphale has the pleasure of watching and waiting to touch him, can plan how to touch him, imagine all the ways Crowley will _want_ to be touched once he's finally in his right mind again. 

And Aziraphale watches closely -- just to make sure he's safe, of course -- as Crowley pulls gently against the ropes and makes his soft little moans. He watches as the movements get smaller and the moans quieter, watches the body slacken against the ropes and the Effort soften, and then the ropes unbind themselves and the demon falls into his arms.

He pulls a soft duvet out of the aether and wraps it around Crowley, massaging warmth back into his limbs until the demon makes a little moaning noise and settles back against his chest. He squirms to check his pocket watch without disturbing the bundle on his lap. Eight hours to go. But what's the harm while the demon is asleep? He carefully unfastens the gag and sets it aside. Crowley takes a breath through his mouth but doesn't wake, and his soft noises don't resolve into any more temptations. Aziraphale enfolds the demon in his arms and dares to relax.

*

"Mm, angel?"

"Are you well, my dear?"

"Yeah. 'm warm."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

"Angel?"

"Hm?"

"It wouldn't hurt, you know."

"What, dearest?"

"If you fucked me. I'd never -- never say no to you. You could do anything-"

Aziraphale scrambles off the sofa, leaving Crowley to fall against the cushions. 

"I think," he says sternly, "we still have some time to go on our bargain."

"Aw, no, no, angel, don't be like that-"

Aziraphale produces a length of fine white linen. Crowley's eyes go wide.

"No, angel, just let me talk to you -- I'll say whatever you want -- just listen, please-"

Aziraphale grips his chin, cutting off all complaints and stuffing the cloth into his mouth. Golden eyes, unnaturally wide, turn on him. He picks up a roll of shiny white tape and begins binding it around Crowley's head. The demon rolls his eyes miserably and shakes his head in protest. Aziraphale holds his face in both hands, a little more firmly than necessary.

"Until you're in control of yourself again, you will keep your wiles to yourself, or I'll do it for you by any means necessary, do you understand?"

Crowley nods carefully, bobbing his head in Aziraphale's grip.

"Good." He finishes by winding tape under the chin to keep the jaw in place. "Four hours to go -- I hope. Will I need to tie you up again?"

Crowley shakes his head slowly. Aziraphale nods in satisfaction. "Stay here. I need a cup of tea." 

The demon drops back onto the sofa with a barely audible huff. When Aziraphale returns with his tea, Crowley’s wound the duvet around him like a sullen cloud, reproachful eyes barely visible from its depths. Aziraphale sits properly in the armchair, ankles crossed, and sips his tea, saucer in one hand.

“Really, my dear, there is absolutely no call for sulking.”

The cloud shifts a little.

“One would think you’d take the opportunity to improve your communication.”

_Huff mmph._

“I’d offer you some tea, but…”

Two serpentine eyes rise above the cloud to glare at him. The effect is rather ruined by the soft duvet.

Aziraphale meets the baleful stare with an equally benign smile. “Perhaps if I read to you. Some Oscar Wilde?”

The cloud explodes as two fists emerge and bunch up in the soft billows. _Hrmph mmph_ , Crowley says, and turns his head away to glare at the wall.

“I gather you’re bored,” says Aziraphale, “In just four hours, we can do whatever you’d like.”

Crowley emits a high-pitched whine.

“No,” he agrees, “I don’t know that it’ll be over in four hours, but we can hope, can’t we? Now I could have let you go just now, but you couldn’t control yourself. And until you can, I’ve got to control us both. And it’s very difficult for me to control myself, my dear. I’d like to throw you down and take you on the floor right now.” Crowley’s head swings back around to stare at him. “You don’t need to tempt me with infernal wiles, Crowley. You’re temptation enough sitting at my side. And as soon as you can consent, I will have you in more ways than you can ask or imagine. But until then, I need you to please keep it together. Help _me_ to keep it together. Because I don’t know if I can-”

And it’s terribly unfortunate, because Crowley has risen from his heavenly cloud, and it’s only a couple steps for him to cross the room, and he’s tugging gently on Aziraphale’s hand, softly taking the cup and saucer and turning away only to set them down quite properly on the table, before turning back to gaze intently into Aziraphale’s eyes, and there’s something hypnotic about them, and he worries suddenly -- can’t snakes hypnotise their prey? He should really have kept Crowley tied up; he shouldn’t have expected the demon to stop his wiles at words and a few hip rolls. And now he has a demon with an infernal compulsion to tempt leaning over him and just because his mouth is stuffed tightly with wads of cloth and wound with enough layers of tape to satisfy a mummy does not mean he's harmless.

Crowley bends down and gently presses tape to lips, kissing him on the mouth.

*

Aziraphale is starting to have regrets, and what he regrets most is not regretting a minute of the past fourteen hours.

“You are not to kiss me,” he tells the demon firmly as he gently ties his arms behind his back in a little harness that crosses over his chest with a handy anchor point right over the breast bone. “You are not to wile in any way. You are not to touch yourself. And it’s no point touching me,” he adds, as Crowley tries to nuzzle into his crotch, “because I am not making an Effort until this is over.”

Crowley makes a complaint from the back of his throat.

“Oh, don’t whinge, my dear. I couldn’t very well have set the rules at the start because I didn’t know just what you intended to get up to.” He ties the demon’s thighs right above the knees and his calves right below. “But those are the rules now, and I intend to stick to them. Now let’s see -- yes, you bundle up into a delicious little package.” He crosses one ankle over the other and ties them together, then runs a rope from chest to thighs. “How do you like that?”

A deep moan, coupled with the Effort straining against Crowley’s pants, makes it obvious.

He sighs. “I meant, is it comfortable?”

_Nmph, hmph_ , and a weak thrust.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about _that_ ,” Aziraphale says petulantly. “You could turn it off, you know.”

_Nmph mmph nh._

“Then you’ll just have to wait.” He patted the taped-up cheek lightly. Crowley makes an attempt at a glare, but it comes across as merely a doe-eyed smoulder.

“Now -- careful, darling,” and he demonhandles Cowley, lifting him off the floor just enough to slide a cushion underneath and ignoring an undignified _gmph_. “We should be able to ride out the rest of the influence, hm?”

He settles back into the armchair, leaving Crowley on the cushion at his feet. The demon is sitting up just high enough for Aziraphale to stroke his hair, eliciting an annoyed but comfortable hum. “Well done, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Not long now.”

He lets the comfortable feeling of petting Crowley’s hair, the weight of his head on Aziraphale’s lap, begin to relax him. Not lull him, exactly; despite the steady countdown he’s been offering, he has no experience with Hell’s influences on demons. And Crowley said he has to keep going until he’s accomplished what Beelzebub expects of him. Tempting the two humans to theft earlier obviously hasn’t done the trick, and Aziraphale has no idea how many were subjected to his wiles before he arrived at the shop. It might have been a better idea to let him run wild and clean up after him -- get his quota up without letting him cause any lasting harm. But Crowley doesn’t seem to want to leave the shop and work on humans; he’d almost rather stay here and work on Aziraphale. 

In fact, he must, Aziraphale reflects, because there’s nothing keeping him here. Even when freed, he only used his liberty to work on seducing Aziraphale. And despite his plaintive vocalisations and his expressive, dagger-sharp looks, he seems content to stay in the shop, whether with his head in Aziraphale’s lap or his body under Aziraphale’s gaze. Why? Working on humans must be easier; Aziraphale certainly finds it so. Their lives are so short and small, it’s a commensurately simple matter to influence them for good or indeed -- in Aziraphale’s _somewhat more limited_ experience -- for ill. Perhaps, he reflects, the prize of tempting an angel is enough to fulfil the dictates of Hell.

Or maybe Crowley just likes his company.

His hands have slowed on the demon’s head, and he gets a little insistent nudge.

“Yes, yes,” he sighs, redoubling his efforts. “Honestly, I don’t know why I let you bait me into these things.”

And that’s the worst thing, of course. Crowley is his friend -- at least, as long as he can hide the relationship from Heaven. Regular work-related absences, false animosity, and very public thwartings are bad enough; losing him is unthinkable. Yet Aziraphale has no way of knowing what’s going on in the demon’s mind right now. If he’s misinterpreted, if the influence is stronger than he thinks it is, if Crowley hasn’t really been hinting at this sort of… activity… for years, he’s broken the trust of the one being who can truly understand him, the one being -- short of the Ground of Being, anyway -- who has ceaselessly supported him almost since the beginning of time. 

Yes, that’s the worst part of it. The possibility that he’s overstepped his friend’s boundaries. The darkening intuition that this is as much as he’ll ever get doesn’t play into it, and certainly not the dreadful certainty that he wants all this and more.

Crowley mmphs sleepily and tilts his head to gaze up at him, eyes like black pools edged in electrum. He looks blissed out, igniting a spark of hope in the vacuum of Aziraphale’s psyche.

He lets his fingertips trace a line from the blazing red crown down temple and cheekbone. Crowley leans into it, and Aziraphale can feel a smile under the tape.

“Oh, my darling. Do you know -- I’ve half a mind to keep you all to myself like this, if only you wanted it,” he whispers. 

Crowley nuzzles into his hand. Aziraphale checks his pocket watch again, mostly for appearances, and the ticking down of the hours tracks the gentle cracking of his heart.

*

It isn't fair.

It isn't fair to Aziraphale, of course, because never is he ever going to get what he wants, but it really isn't fair to Crowley, taking advantage of him like this. 

Besides, if Aziraphale wasn't good enough for him before -- not handsome enough or clever enough or _experienced_ enough -- he certainly doesn't deserve Crowley now that he's been… doing whatever this is… against his will for going on sixteen hours.

He's sick with guilt and he still can't help sinking his fingers into the demon's silky red hair. It's like he can't stop himself, like those pleasurable little noises Crowley emits are keeping him hypnotised. It sounds, against his better judgement, like Crowley is enjoying himself, and against his better judgement, Aziraphale can't bring himself to make the noises stop.

But it's closing in on sixteen hours, and he can't keep this up forever. He slides out of the armchair and kneels next to Crowley. Heavy-lidded golden eyes follow him, and the lines of his distorted smile are visible under the tape. With trembling hands, Aziraphale begins to unwind the rope. He tries not to think about never seeing Crowley again, his slender thighs, his angular collarbone, the livid rope marks against his creamy skin.

When the ropes are scattered like snakes around him, Crowley stretches his limbs and heaves a little sigh. Aziraphale helps him rub some circulation back in, staring at the gag that covers his mouth and chin.

"I'm so sorry," he says.

Crowley lifts his head with a puzzled expression. Oh dear. Perhaps he hasn't yet escaped the Hellish influence after all. Even so, Aziraphale feels, he deserves to go wherever he wants, even if it means tempting humans, even if it means Aziraphale has failed his friend in every way. 

He pulls safety scissors from the aether and carefully cuts through the layers of tape, pulling it easily from Crowley's face. "Open," he instructs, and the demon obediently allows Aziraphale to pull the rag from his mouth. 

Crowley leans into him and says, "Water."

Yes, excellent idea, Aziraphale thinks, and he stumbles for the kitchen. He pauses at the sink, trying to rebuild his courage, and then decides Crowley deserves some of that fancy mineral water he worked so hard on and fills the glass with a guilty miracle instead.

Several deep breaths later, he walks stiffly back into the room. Crowley is still leaning against the armchair, fluid like molten gold or the sun setting over the walls of Jerusalem.

He accepts the water and drinks deeply, swishing mouthfuls around a few times before swallowing. Aziraphale watches the motion of his throat, in case it's the last time.

"Oh, angel, we have _got_ to do that again."

Aziraphale blinks a few times. "You're still -- oh dear."

Crowley waves a lazy hand. "Naw, 'm fine now. You did good, angel. 'salright."

"No, it is not alright! I can't just do whatever I want to you when you're in no position to consent! I've behaved abominably toward you, Crowley, and I hope you'll forgive me, but I -- I understand if you never..."

Crowley gapes. He's furious, Aziraphale thinks, this will be the end of it.

"Angel. Angel, you did exactly what I wanted. You did exactly what I _asked_ you to do. Remember? You kept me safe and kept a lid on the temptations. I could have walked away at any time. You kept me busy and, and _interested_ enough to stay. And now that I can tell you what I want instead of trying to make you act on your darkest feelings -- angel, I want you to do it all _again_."

Aziraphale tries to make some response, but there's emptiness where words should be. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again and goes "Hnk."

Crowley rolls his eyes, as though Aziraphale has successfully communicated everything on his mind. "I get it. Should've known. You got scared."

"I did not get scared!" he snaps.

"Bullshit, angel, you were scared of just how much you liked it, so you made up an excuse to avoid giving in to it -- in to us.” He leans in. “You're afraid, Aziraphale, afraid of losing your preciousss halo."

"The only thing I'm afraid of losing is you!"

And his jaw hangs slack, mouth open and empty, terror climbing up his throat like an insect on a damp wall. 

Maybe Crowley's right.

"Oh, angel." He sounds just the slightest bit impressed. "That was brave."

Aziraphale scoffs. "I am a soldier in the Divine army, you know."

"Wielder of the fiery sword! Guardian of the Eastern Gate! Captor of the Serpent of Eden! I mean," Crowley adds, "you could be that. Again. For as long as you want."

For the first time in hours, he feels a soft smile break out, like a sunrise. "How can I know you're not still under compulsion?"

"Oh, that? Wore off a couple hours ago," Crowley mumbles, looking intently at a floorboard. "I just didn't want to stop."

"Foul tempter, what shall I do with you?" Aziraphale says fondly.

"Well, Soldier in the Divine Army, I remember you promising to take care of _this_.” He gives a languid thrust. “Take me in any way I can ask or imagine, your words?"

And this smile, this sunrise, is all for Crowley. "I did at that."

"And I'll allow you to carry out your vow. Honesty, integrity, fucking - those are virtues, if I recall."

"You don't."

"But," Crowley continues, "I have a condition."

"Anything, dearest."

The demon grins then, sharp and hungry, and his condition is hanging from one hand. "Make this a part of your thwarting."

*

It's soft tan leather, and it's lined with shearling, and it looks almost natural on Crowley's face. It consists of a simple panel with a small tongue depressor inside, just enough to keep him quiet, and an understated strap under the chin to keep his jaw closed. The fittings look like gold, and he supposes it's possible - it's unlikely Crowley could have purchased anything like it in a store.

His eyes are like twin suns over the gag, glowing with trust, and Aziraphale is beginning to wonder whether, after six thousand years, they just might know each other well enough to understand without words. He only has to be honest and to perceive.

“This is a lot of trust you’re putting in me,” he murmurs.

Crowley, perched on his thighs, hands loosely clasped around Aziraphale’s neck, makes a warm noise and cocks his head. 

“I shall try to live up to it.”

Aziraphale runs his hands Crowley’s sides, fingers rubbing over the vestigial scales -- barely noticeable to human eyes -- thumbs notching the spaces between the ribs. He leans forward and plants a kiss at the hollow of his throat, feeling rather than hearing the happy hum deep in the throat. His Effort, already ill at ease in his trousers, begins to feel constricted.

“I thought, ah -- I’d like to be inside you.”

Crowley responds by dipping his head down to the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, his prick sliding against the swell of the soft belly with its curly blond hairs. Then he seems to remember something and straightens up. He looks Aziraphale in the face and nods.

And of everything that’s happened today, this is probably the most terrifying. He can feel a parade of emotions march across his face.

He swoops in to kiss Crowley on the lips and has to swerve to the cheek at the last second. "This is monstrous, not being able to kiss you," he murmurs, nipping at the golden neck instead, but the wordless little moan rebuts his complaint.

Crowley leans back again to give him a hard look, wags his eyebrows, cocks his head. Finally he rolls his eyes and slips one hand free to tap Aziraphale on the lips. "Oh, speak to you?" Aziraphale guesses. "You had only to say, dear boy."

A roll of the eyes.

"We'll have to sort a few things out for next time. Preferences. Dislikes. Communication. Until then… well, I suppose you're at my mercy."

It's clearly the right thing to say, although Crowley tries to make a sceptical face. Aziraphale smiles fondly.

"I could get used to this, you know. Having a quiet night in. Being able to read in peace."

The noise is supposed to be indignant, but it can’t hide his new favourite sound -- that satisfied little moan that does such wonderful things to him.

He pushes Crowley back on the sofa, sliding a cushion under his hips and slipping a vial into his hand. “I have a question for you.” He kisses one nipple, and then the other, and gets distracted licking the dark scales around the navel, feeling the body beneath him quiver, the prick harden and dance. Crowley squirms a bit, and he understands -- too much, too soon -- and relents. “You should begin working on your answer immediately. I’ll want a full report when we’re done here.” No doubt the scales are sensitive, and he’s intrigued how sensitive and hopes he’ll find out. “How do you like to do this? Surely you have a favourite, er, method. Something you think about when you…?”

Crowley’s eyes soften in the lamplight, and he hopes the answer is _with you_.

“Now,” he squeezes the hand holding the vial, “prepare yourself the way you like best. I’ll be watching.” 

He divests himself of his clothing and settles back to observe and to learn, oddly comfortable naked on his couch while Crowley unfolds like a rosebud. The demon’s breath comes fast and short as he spills lubricant onto his thumb, hitches his knees up to his shoulders, and begins running a thumb around his hole. A few circles, a tentative dip, then a deeper one, more circles, more fingers, confident and clearly delving into something sublime. And as much as Aziraphale is paying attention to technique, it’s the symphony of little sighing noises and the odd hitch accompanying a greater opening that captivates him. It’s a kenosis, a divine emptying, and Aziraphale is ready to catch what falls.

"Crowley, you delicious little sin."

And he’s heaving forward, hands on Crowley’s shoulders, his chest, his hips, pulling him open, and Crowley’s hands are on his prick. Lightning flashing behind his eyes, animal noises unleashed from his throat. Crowley guides him, and his hands are too much, but then there’s a sudden rightness to the cosmos, and Crowley is all around him, in his hands, in his lips, his eyes, slowly drawing him in deeper, gently, confidently, while he screams into one carved marble shoulder.

Crowley’s legs wrap around him and pull him forward, and he thrusts minutely. He feels a hum against his cheek and a rhythm, like he’s a boat on the tide, and two hands holding his hips. 

He tries to speak and fails. 

One hand holds his hips. Three fingers trace the line of his cheek. Two golden eyes watch with hooded anxiety.

“Mm. It’s good,” he offers.

He’s pulled back into the demon’s embrace, hot, torrid, safe. Aziraphale pumps slowly, anthemically, delves deeper to enter him entirely, to devour and be devoured.

Crowley has drifted into a bliss so intense Aziraphale can feel it all around him. He drives a little harder into the demon, breaking the happy hum into gasps and shudders.

A long, soft thrust, and he can feel Crowley clench around him. Slowly, gently, but ever deeper, unstoppable as a conversion.

"Oh, it's good, Crowley, it's good-"

Crowley's prick gives a judder a moment before he clenches around Aziraphale. Aziraphale can feel him vibrate like the string of a harp, but he hears no sound.

"Yes, my darling, that's it, I'll cry out for both of us…"

He hears no sound and sees nothing but light.

*

Afterwards, now that everything has changed, he cleans Crowley up and wraps him in the duvet again, pours him mineral water, wipes down the gag and sets it in a place of honour on his desk.

“Thank you,” he says softly, refilling the water glass.

Crowley smiles sleepily. “Angel, you’re everything,” he sighs. 

Aziraphale sits down carefully, flaccid Effort warm and unfamiliar against his thigh.

“You’ll stay?”

“‘course.”

“Crowley, I-”

"Shh, angel. I just wanna cuddle. Then we can talk about tomorrow. And all the days after."

Aziraphale pulls the water glass away just in time for Crowley to press a dozen soft kisses to his face. 

"Remind me to thank Beelzebub," he says. "This was my best temptation yet."


End file.
